


The Drinking Game

by Lady_Saddlebred



Series: Lessons They Never Taught Me [38]
Category: Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 01:02:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10628904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Saddlebred/pseuds/Lady_Saddlebred





	

Title: The Drinking Game 

Author: Lady_Saddlebred (cdelapin@yahoo.com)

Archive: Yes, please

Category: Q/O, Alternate Reality

Rating: R/NC17 

Series: Lessons They Never Taught Me in School (archived)

 

DISCLAIMER: George Lucas owned everything, until he sold it to Disney. We own nothing, just playing in his playground.

 

Special thanks to Katbear and Merry Amelie and Helen, mes betas par excellence! Any mistakes are mine.

Previous fics in series (all on AO3 website):  
Early Admission  
Lessons They Never Taught Me in School  
Lessons That Were Never on the Syllabus  
That Which Does Not Go to School  
Rainy Day Recess  
Of Popcorn and Pine Trees  
Fit to Print  
Daffodils  
Spring Cotillion  
Is That a Lightsaber I See Before Me?  
A Pen for Your Thoughts  
When I Was Your Age  
Partners  
Mum’s the Word  
Best Laid Plans  
An Apple for Teacher  
What’s for Supper?  
Pacifier  
Snow Angels  
One Man’s Junk  
May I Have This Dance?  
Four Green Fields  
Too Darned Hot  
Pomp and Circumstances  
Summertime Blues  
Blow the Man Down  
Post-Graduate Studies  
Crossing the Pond  
Moving On  
Picnic in the Park  
Family Matters  
Meeting of the Moms  
Ebony and Ivories  
A Less Than Perfect Storm  
Chicken Soup  
Measuring Up

~*~*~*~

“Let’s go, Brighton! Beat the crap out of the bastards!” 

Ben’s enthusiastic shout made everyone else laugh, but he refused to back down. “They’re my boys! My alma mater! And they’re gonna whip the socks off those other guys,” he insisted.

Owen snorted. “Bunch of losers,” he sneered. “Couldn’t find their way out of a paper bag with a roadmap and a flashlight.”

Ben brandished his foot-long sandwich. “Put your money where your mouth is, bro,” he challenged.

Owen shook his head. “I got a better idea,” he said. “Let’s have a *real* competition.”

“I’m listening,” Ben said, trying to keep his tone friendly. He didn’t like the look in Owen’s eyes. 

“Every time the other team scores, you have to chug a beer. *Every* time.”

Shit, Ben thought. He knows I can’t drink worth a damn. Just as he was about to tell his brother to shove it, Quinn spoke calmly from the sofa.

“Beer hardly seems a sporting methodology. I’m thinking you need something more… potent.”

Uh oh… Ben glanced at his father, unsure he liked the currents in the room. Quinn’s expression was bland, but his blue eyes held the light of battle, to those who knew where to look. He was clearly throwing down a gauntlet.

Owen unsurprisingly took the bait. “Okay, big man. *Liquor*. A shot for every time the opposing team scores. If you think you’re up to it.”

Quinn shrugged. “Choose your poison.”

Owen leapt to his feet and moved to the bar. “Kentucky bourbon,” he said, hefting the nearly full Waterford decanter with which Ben and Quinn had gifted his father at Christmas. “The *good* stuff.”

“Lots of Irishmen in Kentucky,” Quinn noted mildly, as he accepted a glass. “Shall we begin?”

~*~*~*~

The game was hotly contested, the teams evenly matched, and equally determined to prevail. But the televised sports event paled in comparison to the contest in the Kensington living room. 

Owen’s team scored first. Quinn took a deep breath and swallowed a shot of bourbon. “Excellent choice, Owen,” he commented appreciatively, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Smooth.” 

Ben’s team quickly responded, and Owen took his own drink, then refilled both glasses. 

And on it went.

Ben would have bet the farm that no one could put Quinn under the table, but he was starting to wonder if he might have met his match. Both men were red-faced and perspiring, as each gauged the other’s level of sobriety. Between them, they’d more than half-emptied the decanter, and Sam removed the expensive Waterford from their reach, reluctantly producing a bottle of bourbon from the kitchen. Ben assured his father he would drive both men home, and that neither would be allowed behind the wheel.

Friendly digs gave way to less amicable insults as the game wore on and more alcohol was consumed on both sides. When Owen’s team won with a last-minute goal, he crowed his pleasure. Quinn grudgingly conceded defeat, and saluted Owen with his glass before emptying its contents in one final defiant swallow. His speech was more than a little slurred as he asked Sam if he might use the facilities, and Sam directed him down the hall to the master bedroom suite. Ben watched as he made his way out of the room, occasionally touching furniture as he passed, as if to orient himself.

“Looks like I won,” Owen gloated. Ben noticed he didn’t try to stand up. He didn’t even protest when Sam removed both glasses to the kitchen, along with the bottle.

“Proud of yourself?” Ben asked quietly. 

“Hell, yeah,” his brother retorted. “Drinking’s a *man’s* game, Benny boy. Looks like your boyfriend’s not so perfect, after all.”

“Shut up,” Ben said tiredly, as Quinn re-entered the room, looking a bit more composed. He’d washed his face and combed his hair, but still seemed a bit unsteady on his feet. “Ready to go home, slugger?” Ben asked before he could sit back down.

Quinn nodded, then turned to Sam. “Most enjoyable afternoon, Sam. Give my regards to Martha, won’t you?” Only Ben saw the casual wink he gave their host.

Sam nodded. “Be careful, you guys. Ben, be sure you’ve got the keys.” 

Ben stood and beckoned to his partner and his brother. “C’mon, you drunken sots. Let’s get you home.”

~*~*~*~

Later that night, Ben spoke softly from Quinn’s shoulder. “That was a very nice thing you did.”

Quinn stirred sleepily. “What’s that?”

“You know what I’m talking about. You goaded Owen into that drinking game, and then let him think he’d put you under the table. I know damn well you weren’t drunk then, and you’re not drunk now, so quit trying to pretend you’ve passed out over there.” He kissed the bare skin under his head.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Quinn answered, but Ben could hear the rumble of self-satisfaction deep in his chest. His mountain lion was practically purring. 

“Have it your way,” Ben replied. “But you were sober as a judge the whole time.” He chuckled. “Pretending to stumble around, clutching the bookcase for support. You almost had me fooled.”

“I’m so pleased you’re pleased, love,” Quinn murmured mildly. 

There was a long comfortable silence. “Good thing he’s never seen you au natural.”

Quinn’s eyes flew open. “Beg pardon?”

“Well, think about it. He’s got enough insecurities where you’re concerned as it is. If he ever saw this” – Ben reached down and gently petted Quinn’s penis – “he’d probably slice his wrists.”

“God Almighty…” Quinn muttered. “Where do you come up with these things?” He shook his head in mock despair. Then, “Are you sure you aren’t adopted?”

Ben raised his head, puzzled by the non sequitur. “Huh? Why do you ask?”

Quinn smirked. “Your brother drinks like a fish. *You* get soused on one beer.”

“Do not,” Ben retorted, poking his lover in the ribs. “I can go a whole beer and a half now.”

“Bravo!” Quinn applauded. “Keep it up, and you might make it through a decent evening’s pub crawling next time we go to Ballymena.”

They laughed softly together, then drifted off to sleep in each other’s arms.

~end~


End file.
